Written by a Zealous Brother from the Black-fryers

The mighty zeale which thou hast new put on,Neither by prophet nor by prophetts sonneAs yet prevented, doth transport mee soBeyond my selfe, that, though I ne’re could goFarr in a verse, and all rithmes have defy’dSince Hopkins and old Thomas Sternhold dy’de,(Except it were that little paines I tookeTo please good people in a prayer-bookeThat I sett forth, or so) yet must I raiseMy spirit for thee, who shall in thy praiseGird up her loynes, and furiously runAll kinde of feet, save Satans cloven one.Such is thy zeale, so well dost thou express it,That, (wer ’t not like a charme,) I’de say, Christ blesse it.I needs must say ’tis a spirituall thingTo raile against a bishopp, or the king;Nor are they meane adventures wee have bin in,About the wearing of the churches linnen;But these were private quarrells: this doth fallWithin the compass of the generall.Whether it be a pole painted, and wroughtFarr otherwise, then from the wood ’twas brought,Whose head the idoll-makers hand doth croppe,Where a lew’d bird, towring upon the topp,Lookes like the calfe at Horeb; at whose rootsThe unyoak’t youth doth exercise his foote;Or whether it reserve his boughes, befreindedBy neighb’ring bushes, and by them attended:How caust thou chuse but seeing it complaine,That Baalls worship’t in the groves againe?Tell mee how curst an egging, what a stingOf lust do their unwildy daunces bring?The simple wretches say they meane no harme,They doe not, surely; but their actions warmeOur purer blouds the more: for Sathan thusTempts us the more, that are more righteous.Oft hath a Brother most sincerely gon,Stifled in prayer and contemplation,When lighting on the place where such repaire,He viewes the nimphes, and is quite out in ’s prayer.Oft hath a Sister, grownded in the truth,Seeing the jolly carriage of the youth,Bin tempted to the way that’s broad and bad;And (wert not for our private pleasures) hadRenounc’t her little ruffe, and goggle eye,And quitt her selfe of the Fraternity.What is the mirth, what is the melody,That setts them in this Gentiles vanity?When in our sinagogue wee rayle at sinne,And tell men of the faults which they are in,With hand and voice so following our theames,That wee put out the side-men from their dreames.Sounds not the pulpett, which wee then be-labour,Better, and holyer, then doth the tabour?Yet, such is unregenerate mans folly,Hee loves the wicked noyse, and hates the holy.Routes and wilde pleasures doe invite temptation,And this is dangerous for our damnation;Wee must not move our selves, but, if w’ are mov’d,Man is but man; and therefore those that lov’dStill to seeme good, would evermore dispenceWith their owne faults, so they gave no offence.If the times sweete entising, and the bloodThat now begins to boyle, have thought it goodTo challenge Liberty and Recreation,Let it be done in holy contemplation:Brothers and Sisters in the feilds may walke,Beginning of the Holy Worde to talke,Of David, and Uriahs lovely wife,Of Thamar, and her lustfull brothers strife;Then, underneath the hedge that woos them next,They may sitt down; and there act out the text.Nor do wee want, how ere wee live austeere,In winter Sabbath-nights our lusty cheere;And though the pastors grace, which oft doth holdHalfe an howre long, make the provision cold,Wee can be merry; thinking ’t nere the worseTo mend the matter at the second course.Chapters are read, and hymnes are sweetly sung,Joyntly commanded by the nose and tongue;Then on the Worde wee diversly dilate,Wrangling indeed for heat of zeale, not hate:When at the length an unappeased doubtFeircely comes in, and then the light goes out;Darkness thus workes our peace, and wee containeOur fyery spiritts till we see againe.Till then, no voice is heard, no tongue doth goe,Except a tender Sister shreike, or so.Such should be our delights, grave and demure,Not so abominable, not so impure,As those thou seek’st to hinder, but I feareSatan will bee too strong; his kingdome’s here:Few are the righteous now, nor do I knowHow wee shall ere this idoll overthrow;Since our sincerest patron is deceas’t,The number of the righteous is decreast.But wee do hope these times will on, and breedA faction mighty for us; for indeedeWee labour all, and every Sister joynesTo have regenerate babes spring from our loynes:Besides, what many carefully have done,Getting the unrighteous man, a righteous sonne.Then stoutly on, let not thy flocke range lewdlyIn their old vanity, thou lampe of Bewdly.One thing I pray thee; do not too much thirstAfter Idolatryes last fall; but firstFollow this suite more close, let it not goeTill it be thine as thou would’st have ’t: for soeThy successors, upon the same entayle,Hereafter, may take up the Whitson-ale.